What I’m about to tell you happened to me a few years ago, when I visited the city of Ica, Peru.
At that time, I wasn’t going through the best moment in my life. College hadn’t welcomed me with the smile they always promise to newcomers, and I was still recovering from the trauma left by the day my family’s car overturned on the road.
I was desperate to find some peace and break free from the monotonous routine I had innocently succumbed to. So, I had no complaints when my parents invited me on a short trip they had planned for their mid-year vacation, even though it would be our first trip since the accident that had instilled an irrational fear of speed in me.
I had only taken short car trips until then, which already caused tremors and chills down my spine, along with a paranoia that conjured grotesque images in my mind. I would have to mentally prepare myself if I wanted this to work, but it would all be worth it in the end. Or so I thought.
The destination was the Ica department, a hot and desert area located south of Lima, my hometown, about which I had not bothered to research much before or during the preparations. Perhaps I was seeking a little surprise or something of the sort; everything had become painfully predictable.
But, although I had lost interest in trips for a while, some of my natural curiosity to explore something beyond the gray sky and the burning smell of highways had awakened in me. So, I also had time to pack a few things to make the trip more interesting: a sketchbook, a camera, and the usual broken headphones.
I felt like I was preparing for something that would last much longer than a couple of days. I don’t think there was even time for goodbyes. it was a day like any other.
I don’t remember when I stopped entertaining myself by watching the trees and mountains pass by from the window of our van, nor what I was thinking when I saw the Welcome to Ica sign, but the trip felt strangely short.
It could be that our radio was malfunctioning that time, but I never forget those first hours of fun and music that precede the arrival.
I remember waking up with low spirits, my throat begging for a drop of water, amidst a deafening silence. But anything was preferable to enduring another fear attack and ruining my parents’ fun. I hadn’t told them about my new fear, out of embarrassment that they would call me childish, and until today, I have kept it well hidden.
We arrived around two or three in the morning, perhaps, when the only things alive are insects and the moon. A cold wind welcomed us as we got out, and we stood there savoring the dark landscape painted by distant clouds, as we often did on other occasions with so much excitement.
I had imagined the first stop in a better way, but I was not there to complain about anything; I had chosen to be there, and besides, it seemed that this was more our fault for venturing into an almost deserted area.
We walked for a long time through the streets, under the dark facades that seemed to watch us with their windows, looking for a hotel that would welcome us or point us to the next one that would reject us, but it was futile. I tried to distract myself behind my parents, following a crack in the ground that seemed never to end.
I had heard about the 2007 earthquake, like any other Peruvian, but it was very different to walk on the sidewalks where someone had probably died. But I didn’t want to think about death too much, so I just followed the crack until we stopped, and I looked up. The van, again.
The plan now was to search further inside for more options and maybe arrive early at Huacachina, the oasis around which our entire trip and the whole city seemed to revolve.
The cold had entered the van in the few seconds we had left it open and now we were completely assimilated into the city. I was glad my father was driving so slowly, as if he were sneaking the car, revealing himself at times as he passed under the light of a lamppost.
We reached a street that seemed never to end, and I thought about all the things that appear at night and that we can’t see, hidden deep within. There wasn’t much conversation in the next few minutes as we waited for the first sand clouds of the desert to begin appearing over the graffiti-covered wall that separated us.
I was sure the view would be more attractive from the other side of the back seat, facing the city, but a laziness that often attacked me had me glued to the window. At the first dune, spirits lifted, and by the third, we felt at home.
I thought maybe I would dare to ride one of those tubular cars the next day and end up caressing my reflection in the spring water from a boat.
Silly ideas, but the dunes were a good sign. I focused on one, thinking of following it until it disappeared from view. It was tall and almost just a perfectly defined silhouette.
First, I noticed the cross. It seemed to be made of wood, judging by the tips protruding from its head, and had something wrapped around it, like an old cloth tied around its arms. My hands brushed my camera instinctively; it was one of “those” images.
Then, I noticed the woman. I knew she was a woman for some reason, despite the black cloak that covered her completely. Still, at the foot of the cross, I didn’t know if she was looking at me or at the sky.
Then, I saw the child. Motionless, feeling my camera with the sweat of my hands, I traced his tiny outline with my gaze. His white tunic made him a point of light amidst so much darkness, with the greatest contrast in the contact of his hand with the woman’s.
I didn’t think about this vision more than I felt it, and when, moving away from it, I saw the two figures start moving, gliding down the dune with an unreal ease, that was when I truly felt it.
I heard a sigh, more of bewilderment than fear, coming from the driver’s seat. I turned instantly and found my mother turning her head, confused, and my father stretching his neck to the left while driving, searching among the dunes with eyes wide as saucers.
“Did you see that?” my father said.
“Yes,” I replied with the little breath I had left.
“There, on the hill. Did you see it?” he asked.
“Yes. I saw a woman and a child. What could they be doing outside at this hour?” I asked, raising my voice.
“I’m glad you saw it. I thought I was going crazy,” he replied.
“Your father always lets me know very late to see,” my mother said.
It’s reassuring to know you weren’t alone. Slowing down, we tried to lighten the atmosphere as best as we could, making jokes about what we had seen or seeking reasonable explanations, but it was clear that none of the three thought that going back, either to clarify our doubts or out of simple curiosity, was an option.
I didn’t stop turning around during the slow journey to the secluded area of hotels, hoping that something would happen, and when I was starting to gain some of that reckless courage that comes in extreme situations, we had already arrived.
The next day, I woke up in a hotel in the city, not because of a paranormal event, but because of the terror caused by the prices of exclusive hotels. It wasn’t a perfect morning, but I woke up with a smile on my face. It had been days since I had a night so peaceful, free of images of shattered glass and bloodied asphalt.
For the first time in days, I had had a pleasant, peaceful dream that woke me up calmly, but I couldn’t remember what I had seen in it. Despite the doubts and fears of the previous night, I tried to approach the dune experience with joy that morning, thinking it had been the most interesting thing that had happened to me throughout the trip.
I did a small but enlightening investigation on my phone, taking advantage of the comfortable silence of 5 a.m., and discovered a part of the local culture I didn’t expect to find: witches. The place was covered with them, especially the town of Cachiche.
Stories, some more believable than others, were told about these beings in every article, and it was evident that they were an essential part of the culture. I had always been interested in mysteries of this kind, but I had never experienced them so closely, and with each link I clicked on, I felt more like I was inside a movie.
I saw different visual interpretations, from cartoons to local renditions that mixed styles with originality, and then I saw her. One of the photos was identical to Her. The black cloak, the cross, and everything. I searched tirelessly for similar images and kept finding coincidences.
I know that stranger things have been seen in Peru: llamas with faces, miner goblins, cannibal entities, etc., but this didn’t diminish my fascination. Besides, I could someday share the experience, as I am doing right now.
As I had no interest in ruining my stay with irrational fears, after getting ready to explore the area more, I mentioned our peculiar encounter to my parents during breakfast, hoping to convey some of my morning enthusiasm.
At first, both of them didn’t seem so interested in starting a conversation about it. I could read the discomfort on their faces from miles away, but after a few minutes of information I had read the night before, I saw both nod at each other, as if agreeing, and my father began to speak.
“I wanted to talk to you about that, son. I don’t want you to jump to conclusions or anything, but yesterday I had a very strange dream. The lady who was on the dune yesterday… I think she was in my dream.
I saw her with her black cloak, really dark, floating as she seemed to do yesterday, descending so fast, and underneath, it was all torn, with several points.
She approached me while I walked in the sand and said something I no longer remember. Then she left, and I was left alone. I already told your mom about this. Like I said, I don’t want you to think anything bad, but I think we should say a prayer since we’re here together.”
I tried to imagine the scene he had described, my head still full of various different images of witches from the night before. Suddenly, I felt stupid for how I had started the conversation when I saw how seriously my father was looking at both of us, but I didn’t say anything.
He gave me other details that I can’t remember now, so you’ll have to forgive me.
Without warning, my father took our hands tightly and indicated that we should start saying a Our Father, that what we had experienced wasn’t a joke, and we had to make an effort to keep away anything bad. Bewildered, I didn’t say anything and went along with it, even though I never liked being part of such rituals.
Although I tried to pretend to accompany him with the same devotion and sincerity, I felt uncomfortable among so many people watching us, and I just stared at my coffee without saying a word, listening to the same words as always, now intoned in a more severe tone than usual.
When it was over, I saw my mother smile at me with reassuring serenity, but when I turned to look at my father, I saw that he hadn’t finished yet. With his eyes tightly closed and his face contorted in a painful expression, I heard him whispering requests and mentioning my name and my mother’s more than once.
He didn’t let go of our hands for more than five minutes. When he opened his eyes, he acted as if nothing had happened and continued his breakfast without even looking at us.
As we left and took the last sip of my coffee, I saw an unusually large moth settle on the window that lit our table. I observed it for a moment, shouting for them to wait for me outside. I always liked insects of all kinds, so I quickly approached to photograph it. It had a particular and exotic beauty.
I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember the grayish tone and the hypnotic patterns on its wings. Motionless as it was, I felt tempted to grab it and keep it to admire at home, but they are always more beautiful when free.
I left the hotel with the image engraved in my memory and climbed into the black tourist car that had been waiting for us for a while.
We traversed several narrow streets in a car that seemed not to touch the ground with how smoothly it moved. During the journey, I tried not to look at the window in front of me and released stress by scratching my pants and breathing deeply through my nose.
The sun scorched the cracked walls that one could no longer recognize as houses. I was glad to see the city no longer shrouded in shadows, but at times, the view was tragic. The destruction would be a difficult wound to heal.
The guide spoke about the history of monuments and churches, with the tone of someone who had recited the same script millions of times. He told us that people had tried to carry on as best they could, making an effort to leave behind that fateful day.
Many had found solace in religion, while others had simply left. He himself, after all these years, still covered cracks in his walls. Maybe I would have said some words of comfort now, but then, I couldn’t think of anything; I was more focused on hiding my unease.
When there was silence, and we stopped in traffic, I looked up and saw my father, sitting in the passenger seat, watching the man with pity. The last time I had seen him like that was during the long waits we had to endure when we practically lived inside the hospital.
My mother looked out the window, and I couldn’t see her face. When the man briefly mentioned the witches in the area, my father wasted no time in mentioning the experience we had. Mumbling in his words, he began to ask if he had heard of any similar cases, perhaps mentioned by other tourists.
The guide looked at us strangely, as if we were fools or crazy. He simply said, “No,” and turned his attention back to the road. My father tried to bring up the topic once more, but only received more silence.
I noticed that the man had irritated him (he has always been prone to such reactions), and for the rest of the trip, he didn’t take his eyes off the window.
We got out of the car in a highly crowded central area. Making our way through other tourists, we followed the guide’s steps to the Sanctuary of the Lord of Luren, a sober yet beautiful stone construction that, according to the guide, dated back to the 14th century and had emerged from the debris it had turned into.
After indicating to us where we could enter, he sat down to wait for us next to the gates that protected the sanctuary. When we entered the sanctuary, my parents began to argue in hushed whispers, oblivious to the imposing image of the Lord of Luren hanging at the end of the sanctuary.
The place was practically empty, except for a colorful cluster of people in the background, in a corner of the central nave. Worried about drawing too much attention, I moved away to the classic gallery of paintings depicting the story of Jesus. But I had forgotten that in churches, it’s impossible not to overhear what others are saying.
Hidden behind a white column, I watched as my mother tried to lift my father off the floor, scolding him with silent shouts, assuming he shouldn’t pray in that manner on the ground. My father seemed to ignore her complaints and only sank further into his position, burying his head in the cold tile.
Defeated, my mother retreated to one of the seats and began to observe the crucified Christ. I had seen them argue before over stupid things, but never in such a manner and over such a thing. Something was wrong with my father, of that I was sure.
I thought maybe the dream he had affected him in an unusual way, but I didn’t think what he was doing was too bad. I approached my mother, thinking of accompanying her while my father finished his business.
I asked if she wanted to go back to the car while I waited for Dad, but she didn’t respond and remained focused on watching my father. I wanted to ask her something else, and she interrupted me.
“He said they were following him. That he wants to protect us, and that’s the only way to do it. What nonsense, only embarrassing us all by behaving like this.”
I turned to look at him and saw the ladies in the corner staring and talking among themselves. “They’re mocking him,” I thought. “He only cares about us; she wouldn’t understand.” It had always been like that. I thought about how much my father did for us when we were hospitalized and how little she contributed.
Always sitting in a chair, eating. Her tears had always been smaller. I decided to stand up alone to get away from her and her perfume and approached a priest I had seen talking to a couple. When they separated, I told him that I had wanted to confess several times but didn’t think I was ready yet.
“Don’t worry, son, you’ll know when you are. God waits for those who drift away from Him,” he said.
“And what if I never find Him, Father?”
“Well…, others will find you first.”
“Others? What do you mean?”
“Did no one ever tell you how much you’re worth? What your soul is worth? Thousands die to seize it. Thousands who are here right now, within these walls.”
At that moment, I turned to look at my father, and I felt like the priest was reading my thoughts.
“Witches?”
“Call them what you want. Demons, entities, witches, in the end, they all seek the same thing: to get here,” he said, pointing to his chest with his finger. “Once inside, they gnaw at you from the inside like larvae until there’s nothing left, and then they have fun with their new hollow toy, doing whatever they please.
That’s why we must take care of ourselves, son. Come to mass more often and get confirmed; you won’t regret it. We take care of our own.”
“I don’t know, Father. I guess I’ll have to think about it.”
“Well, I suppose not everyone is perfect. It’s your decision if you want to go with those idiots in the squares who think playing with witchcraft is so much fun. When all those people die, they’ll see what awaits them,” he said, raising his voice and putting an end to the conversation.
I wanted to say goodbye to the priest before leaving, but he just ignored me. I had had enough of the oppressive atmosphere inside, so I left the church to get some fresh air and check my phone. Ten missed calls, my siblings had been calling me all morning.
I dialed one of the numbers, but my phone died. I would call them with my parents’ phone later. I saw the guide waving at me with his arm behind the gate, and I headed towards him. He asked me how I liked the sanctuary, and I replied that if we could go somewhere else, I had already visited the entire place.
With a smile, he said, “Of course,” and let me into the car to shield myself from the sun. From there, I watched as my parents returned without speaking to each other, hurrying to their seats.
Once inside, my father stopped the guide by grabbing the sleeve of his shirt before he started the car, and, struggling to contain his anger, spoke to him slowly, almost in whispers.
“You told me you hadn’t seen witches,” he said.
“Don’t lie to me again, ok?”
“Sir, if you don’t let me do my job, we won’t reach the end of the tour. Can you let go of my hand?” the guide replied with a pitiful tremor in his voice.
My father released his sleeve abruptly and stuck his head out the window, looking in various directions. I saw how his leg kept trembling, and sweat dripped down his temples. I was so impressed that I realized the car was already moving. I buried my back in the seat and crossed my arms to console myself.
Once again, I remembered the days we spent in the hospital and the screams and cries that never stopped, flooding my head with tormenting questions and nightmares.
At a red light, I wanted to call my father with my hand to ask him something, anything, but my mother stopped me in my tracks and, looking at him with a disturbing look, caressed my head without saying a word.
“He’s acting strange, leave him be” she whispered in my ear.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, hearing my rapid breathing.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I said, moving away to my seat and closing my eyes to pretend I was sleeping.
I remember ending up falling asleep again, fatigued by the heat, and had a dream that, although I had almost completely forgotten, I could swear was the same one I had that night because when my mother woke me up, it left the same taste in my memory.
Only about five minutes had passed, but I felt like I had watched an entire movie and needed to stretch my legs. I looked around, and accidentally, I saw the front window from the corner of my eye and noticed how fast the guide was driving. I couldn’t look away, and I felt my shoulders stiffening, and my breathing started to accelerate.
My mother tried to approach me once more, but all the tension that had built up inside me made me push her with force unintentionally. She, more concerned than angry, asked the guide to stop so she could calm me down. He replied not to worry, that we had already arrived.
We parked the car at the entrance of a small, faded alley full of street vendors and walked on foot behind the guide to an isolated area. He said he would show us “what he was talking about.” My father went ahead, trying to avoid any conversation, and my mother walked at my side.
“Are you okay? Are you not feeling well?” she asked.
“I’m a bit dizzy, that’s all,” I said, pretending to adjust my camera.
“I’ll see if I can find a pharmacy and buy you some pills,” she replied, hastening her pace to catch up with the guide, who was calling us at a corner.
We entered a street where only motorcycles could pass, with a broken-down road. We dodged lines of people and reached an open room facing the street. Painted in faded blue, the atmosphere changed completely once we crossed the threshold.
Different scents of incense and smoke filled the place, and although the heat just a few meters away was scorching, I felt the temperature drop in seconds. I approached the back of the room and soon understood where I was. A stack of photos and candles indicated that I was in front of an altar.
“After the earthquake, many people simply vanished. Thousands were buried under tons of rubble and were never heard from again. But none hurt us more than…”
It was a child. An heroic act had immortalized him in the heart of the entire town and perhaps the entire department. The guide knew his name, the candle lady knew too, and everyone passing by crossed themselves. I saw my parents buying candles to leave as an offering, and beside me, I heard someone crying on their knees.
They held a wooden rosary in a trembling hand and whispered small words. For some reason I can’t explain, I approached, despite my embarrassment, with the intention of consoling her. I had heard cries like that in the hospital and knew what it felt like.
When I placed my hand on her back, the person, a homeless person, lunged towards me and held onto both my arms. Their whispers turned into screams, and some tears wet my hands. I pulled repeatedly, but their grip was too strong. I looked into their sorrowful eyes, and their pain made me offer less resistance.
They say laughter is contagious; I could say the same about crying, as the grief made my eyes moisten without realizing it. In the end, my parents noticed the commotion and came to my aid, separating us and sending the man outside.
I noticed that my father was much more aggressive than usual, throwing punches and shouting as if he knew the man from a long time ago. He hit him in the left eye, making him groan in pain. Then, he didn’t even try to see how he was and just gave me a pat on the shoulder and a fleeting glance.
I couldn’t move for a few seconds, thinking about what the man had shouted at me. I didn’t understand a single word, but I understood everything. My father shouted at the guide to take us to the car immediately, as if these things didn’t happen in our city too.
But then, in that place and moment, we felt lost and alone. Weak, I felt my father pull my arm and drag me towards the car. Everyone was staring at us, stupefied, as if they had just seen a ghost. The guide apologized to the candle lady and jumped into the car.